


Faal Dovahkiinro Wund

by dippkip



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Justice League - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, I think I'm funny, M/M, Slow Burn, Superbat Big Bang 2019, and other kinds of burn WINK, bc there's dragons, but c'mon its 2019 you've played this game or you haven't, it's superbat...but fantasy, nobody clips through a wall but its a near thing, one of the quests involved is a mystery so part of this is a casefic, really glitchy fantasy, some descrptions of dead stuff but it's not very detailed, spoilers for a few skyrim quests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 00:37:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19878721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dippkip/pseuds/dippkip
Summary: Ever since that fateful day in Helgen, it seemed Clark's life in Skyrim was doomed to be anything but simple. Dubbed "Dragonborn" but offered little guidance, Clark must muddle his way across the unpleasantly cold countryside with only his reticent friend Bruce for company. Together they will hunt down a serial killer, save a young boy's life, and kill a few dragons along the way - all in a day's work for the Dovahkiin.





	1. Dragon in the Wilds

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, anyone remember that Writober thing I did a few years back with the [Superbat Skyrim AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8203780/chapters/18959048) and I said I'd write more if people were interested? Here I am 20 years late with Starbucks and another fic, all for the latest Superbat Bang! Huge thanks to my amazing partner Lio and their dope art, which you can see [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19883779), and check back later for a piece from my other partner Squid! And another thanks to my ever faithful beta [bee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarlump/pseuds/sugarlump), who also posted art for the bang! U the best, boo.

“Are you _sure_ it was seen this far north?”

“Clark, I swear, if you ask me that _one more time_ , I’ll let you fight this dragon alone.”

Clark let loose a heavy sigh and frowned when his breath fogged. He’d been living in Skyrim for over half a year now, but he didn’t think he’d ever quite get used to the prevailing cold that gripped most of the region. He could still see the cobblestoned road he and his companion traveled on, but it was rapidly disappearing under the snow that was settling over the landscape, gently floating down to rest on the mountainside and in Clark’s hair.

At least the wind wasn’t threating to knock him off his horse, he thought uncharitably.

It wasn’t often that the Companions were called so far from their base in the city of Whiterun, but these days if any dragon related tips came to Jorrvaskr, Clark was obliged to investigate – he was slightly better equipped than most to deal with the overgrown lizards.

He stopped short when his companion did, tugging lightly at Frost’s reins to keep him still. The other rider was staring into the distance, as though he could see through the flurries of snow currently impeding them.

“We’re getting close. We should leave the horses here.”

Clark stifled a groan, but only barely. He carefully dismounted, mindful of his heavy armor, and guided Frost just off the road over to a sheltered alcove in the mountainside. His companion did the same, leading his sable stallion to stand at Frost’s side. Clark gave his horse a few firm strokes along his neck and a quiet “You behave now” before walking back out to the road, dubiously glancing both ways along the length of it. Clark knew it couldn’t be yet five in the morning, so the road was empty, but that would change as the day wore on.

“Are you sure they’ll be okay here Bruce? This is a pretty busy highway.”

Clark’s companion stepped out into the open, pulling a dark cloak tighter around himself with an absentminded frown. “Shadowmere is more than capable of fighting off some common horse thieves,” Bruce assured him, “and Frost isn’t exactly tame either.”

Clark wrinkled his nose. “I mean, you aren’t wrong, but–”

Bruce leveled him with an unimpressed glare, but turned to continue along the road before Clark could really get indignant. Instead he smothered another sigh and followed Bruce’s lead, keeping his gaze up high even though he couldn’t see much besides the dark grey clouds and unceasing snow.

The road stretched on for nearly another mile, ending at a sharp right where it hit a wide river, before Clark heard the telltale sound of leathery wings. He grabbed his mace from his hip and let his magic flow through his body, calling flame to the fingertips of his left hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bruce ready his bow and nock an arrow, two more dangling from between his ring and pinky fingers. Cobalt eyes were scanning the skies with a practiced calm, even as an earsplitting roar cut through the gloom.

Bruce whipped around to aim at the source of the sound, letting his arrow fly into the low-hanging clouds. A strangled cry let them know he didn’t miss his mark, and heralded the subsequent crash of a massive body meeting the earth just in front of them.

The frost dragon drew itself onto its feet with a low growl, but the black arrow protruding from the joint where wing met body assured Clark that it wouldn’t be taking off again. He pressed his lips into a grim line and charged it head on, blasting a fireball into its face before swinging his mace into its jaw, landing the blow with a wet crunch. Its roar rattled his teeth, and he dove out of the way as it blasted the road with a torrent of frost. He regained his footing in time to lean away from a swipe of its tail, letting the appendage glance off his chestplate instead of smashing into the side of his head.

Another arrow hit its mark, piercing the dragon’s left eye and making it flinch back with a pained screech. Clark took advantage of the pause and took a deep breath, focusing on the well of energy that burned in his chest. He grabbed at it, pulling it up and giving it form as it passed along his throat until he tasted the biting wind at the back of his tongue. He braced himself, and with one final push, he cried “.”

The air shuddered as the force of his voice hit the dragon head-on. It crumpled under the palpable weight with a frustrated cry, writhing in an attempt to stand again. Clark left it no such opportunity, immediately closing the distance and roughly grabbing a horn with his free hand. He hefted himself up onto the beast’s head and planted his left foot firmly next to the captive horn, then brought his mace down in wide, powerful arcs, finding the soft spots behind its horns and at the hinges of its jaw. With one last crunch of steel on bone, the frantic writhing ceased, and the massive body slumped to the ground.

Clark stepped back down and braced himself for the inevitable follow-up as the dragon’s flesh began burning and cracking of its own accord, snapping like kindling in a fire pit. He’d killed nearly a dozen of these things now, but he didn’t think he’d ever adjust to the sensation.

The sound came first, like a gale of wind rushing past his ears, though he couldn’t feel it on his face. Then he saw the streaks of light, jumping from the slumped corpse and towards Clark’s body, shortly followed by a flare in the well of energy in his chest, making it burn so hot it felt like he’d swallowed the sun. Then, in an instant, the burn was gone; the well was calm again, but it felt…different. Stronger.

Clark released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and let his posture slump, staring sightlessly at what was now a pile of old, cracked bones. He didn’t hear Bruce walk up, but he did see a dark figure move into the far edges of his vision. They were both quiet for a moment before Bruce spoke softly, as though afraid to disrupt the atmosphere.

“Go sit for a moment. I’ll take care of this,” he murmured, throwing his cloak over his shoulders to allow his arms more range. He kneeled down and began pulling the skeleton apart, scattering the most damaged bones away from the road and stacking the intact ones into small bundles. Clark wanted to protest, to say he was fine and didn’t even take any damage, but he knew he was still feeling rattled, knew that _Bruce_ knew, so instead he gracelessly slumped onto the nearest boulder. He focused on breathing in and out, on feeling at home in his own body again, and was largely successful until a couple quiet gasps broke the still morning air. He looked up and saw a couple of city guards draped in Stormcloak blue coming around a bend in the road, weapons drawn but seemingly only as a precaution.

“So it’s true,” one of them breathed, voice hushed with reverence, glancing between Clark and the bones still in the road. “The Dragonborn really _has_ returned.”

They didn’t get to do much else before Bruce was on his feet and scaring them away with a frigid glare. Despite his now soured mood, Clark couldn’t help laughing as the two made stuttered apologies and turned tail to return to their post. Bruce grumbled something that sounded extremely rude as he finished his work, lobbing the last few bones out into the river and dusting his gloved hands off. The sun was slowly beginning its ascent, piercing some of the heavy clouds and slowing the snowfall. Clark peered across the river and saw a massive stronghold perched further upstream on the opposite bank.

“Isn’t that Windhelm?” he asked, still staring at the battered fortifications.

Bruce gave him a look that Clark couldn’t decipher, but nodded as he finished tying the intact bones together – Clark knew the smith back at the Skyforge was going to _love_ having new materials for making armor.

“When we told Diana we were heading this way, she mentioned something about a murderer in the city. People were calling them The Butcher,” Clark explained, biting his lip. “Maybe we can look into that? Since we’re here already?”

Bruce’s expression didn’t change, but Clark knew him well enough to see the twitch of his eyebrow. “You want to waltz into the Kingkiller’s city, assume he doesn’t remember who you are, and play detective?” he deadpanned.

Clark winced. “Well, when you put it like that…”

Bruce sighed and crossed his arms. “Look, even if we ignore that fact that he killed the High King, that he started a civil war and still leads the Stormcloak rebellion, he _knows your face_ , Clark. I’d like to say it was long enough ago and a busy enough occasion that he’d have forgotten by now, but I know Lex Luthor, and I know he forgets _nothing_. Whether you like it or not Clark, the Dragonborn is someone who could turn the tide in this war, and Luthor is a man who collects pawns obsessively.” Bruce paused for a moment here and turned to look out over the river before continuing, “…and I’d hate to see you unwillingly become one of them, Clark. You’ve got enough on your plate without getting dragged into a national conflict.”

Clark was grateful that Bruce wasn’t looking at him anymore, because he didn’t have to worry about him seeing the wide smile pulling at Clark’s lips. His chest felt warm again, but it wasn’t the well troubling him this time. He knew Bruce wouldn’t react kindly to anything heartfelt, so Clark wrestled his emotions into a simple but earnest, “Thank you, Bruce.”

As expected, Bruce didn’t acknowledge the gratitude and abruptly began walking back down the road, scooping up the dragon bones as he went.

“What’s the hurry?” Clark asked. 

“We need to retrieve our horses and bring them to the Windhelm stables if we’re staying in the city,” Bruce said, trying to sound irritated, though Clark could tell from the slant of his shoulders that it was affected.

Clark felt something fond pull his lips into another smile as he watched Bruce absently brush some snow out of his hair. Without consciously making the decision, Clark followed him down the road, trying to smother his expression without much success.


	2. Beware the Butcher

It was the work of half an hour to get the horses and ride them up to the stables, where Bruce paid for them to remain for the week. He led Clark across the massive stone bridge that spanned the river, the high walls on either side blocking their view until they were nearly at the city gates. By then the wall was only waist-high, giving Clark a brief view of the Windhelm harbor down to the east before he followed Bruce up the steps to the heavy steel doors that marked the entrance to the city. Bruce quietly stated their business to the guards posted, who then did little more than share a glance before calling for the gates to be opened. As the metal groaned with the effort, Bruce pulled the hood of his cloak back up and fell back to stand at Clark’s side, gesturing for him to lead when the doors were finally ajar. He wouldn’t claim to understand why, but Clark obligingly took the first steps into the city, taking in the assortment of stone homes sheathed in frost.

Almost immediately, they were prevented from moving any further in by a couple of Nords who had cornered a Dark Elf woman up against a set of stairs. Clark turned his attention their way in time to hear the larger of the two drunkenly slur “Imperial _spies_ , the lot of you! Your kind hasn’t sided with the Stormcloaks in their own city. You must be selling _secrets_ to the Imperials.”

The woman seemed unperturbed by their behavior – her expression betrayed nothing more than mild irritation as she said “This isn’t our fight. There’s no side to take. We have no interest in the outcome – our lot changes little either way.”

The two men groused something too incoherently for Clark to understand, but they both spat at the woman’s feet and wandered unsteadily back towards the inn. She sighed and leaned against a low wall, looking drained. Clark only hesitated for a moment before approaching her, trying to curl in on himself a bit so he wouldn’t frighten her.

“Are you alright?” he asked her.

She looked him over for a moment before slowly replying “You must be new here. That’s just what the Nords _do_ in this city. If you aren’t one of them, you shouldn’t be in Windhelm, or so they say. Never mind that they’ve got nothing but Dark Elves and Argonians working their docks and doing their dirty work.” She paused and looked over Clark’s shoulder at Bruce, who had moved so he was almost directly behind Clark over the course of the confrontation. Her smile was hard as she added, “You’re lucky they didn’t spot your friend there, or they might have gotten riled enough to do more than make drunken threats.”

Clark looked back in time to see Bruce grimace and pull his hood lower over his face. His complexion wasn’t as dark as most Imperials’, but he definitely had the sharp cheekbones and jawline that gave his lineage away. Clark frowned and turned to face him properly.

“I didn’t even think about that,” he admitted, “I’m sorry Bruce. You don’t have to do this with me, you know. Maybe you should head back to Whiterun and update Diana about the dragon situation.”

Bruce shot him a faintly indignant look. “Do you really think I didn’t consider that already, Clark? I’m not letting you stay here alone.”

His tone left no room for argument, which Clark was selfishly grateful for – he didn’t really want to try and find a serial killer all by himself. He offered Bruce another smile before parting ways with the Dark Elf, who gave them a cursory nod.

They crossed the courtyard to the Candlehearth Inn, a battered stone structure which stood just across from the city gates. Clark spoke in low tones to the woman waiting at the front, securing a room for him and Bruce to share during their stay. She seemed very worn out, and Clark couldn’t help but ask if she was okay.

“One of the girls hasn’t been in for work the last few days,” she admitted. “We’re stretched a little thin without her, but we’ll manage. I’m sure she’ll be back soon.” Before Clark could respond, she guided them to a room down the hall behind her, giving them a key and returning to her post. Bruce pushed past Clark and dropped his bag at the foot of one of the small beds, giving the room a quick once-over before promptly leaving.

“Sure Bruce, put your feet up for a moment, rest a bit, we’ve got time,” Clark deadpanned, rolling his eyes at glare that earned him.

“ _You_ need to rest. _I_ am going to see if there’s anything I can dig up about our killer before we go running off into the dark looking for them,” Bruce groused. “This nightmare of a city is built like a damn skeever warren, and I refuse to go into this blind.”

Clark frowned. “Hang on, how come I have to rest and you don’t? I’m pretty sure we _both_ just fought a dragon.”

“And my participation was fairly minimal this time,” Bruce retorted calmly. “You’re the one bashing its face in and eating its soul.”

“I just….absorb it…” Clark muttered, but he knew it was a losing battle. Bruce lifted one last pointed eyebrow and Clark acquiesced, stripping off his heavy plate mail and laying down for a nap while Bruce went out into the city. He didn’t wake up again until well after lunch, getting a meal from the kitchens and rearming himself in the time it took for Bruce to return to their room, a shadow at his side that reappeared in the space of a breath.

“Find anything interesting?” Clark asked without looking, strapping on his fur-lined gauntlets.

“Yes,” Bruce said, offering no further explanation. Clark turned to give him a look before he offered a rumpled pamphlet. “A woman named Viola Giordano seems to be very concerned about this Butcher business. She hands one of these to anyone who’s standing still for more than a second.”

Clark took the pamphlet and read the meticulous text, bold black ink stark against the yellowing paper:

_Beware the Butcher!_

_The killer who haunts the streets of Windhelm!_

_These calamitous times bring out the worst in people, don't become the next victim!_

_See Viola Giordano if you spot any suspicious behavior._

“Did she have any suspicions, or is this just a concerned citizen?” Clark asked.

“The latter. The guards’ apathy frustrates her, which is fair,” Bruce said, “but I don’t think she knows anything useful.”

“So what do we do now?” Clark frowned.

“Now we lay low and wait until sundown to see if we can find some better leads.”

It was at least nine o’clock before they set out in earnest. Bruce had left his bow at the inn and opted to carry a few ebony daggers and his shortsword, citing maneuverability in case a fight broke out. Clark was almost positive they weren’t going to encounter the killer tonight (they weren’t _that_ lucky), but he remembered what the dark elf told them at the gates and knew it must be on Bruce’s mind. He sounded more confident than he actually was when he told Bruce “Stay close. We don’t know what to expect here, and we need to watch each other’s backs.”

If Bruce sensed the bravado, he didn’t comment. He followed Clark out of the inn and into the streets of Windhelm, both ready for a long, cold night.

They started in the Grey Quarter, trying to stay inconspicuous while patrolling the relatively quiet streets. The breeze rustled the banners stretched between the tightly-packed ramshackle homes, but there was no other movement in the dark alleys. They made their way back towards the city gates, crossing the courtyard and into the western half of the city. Clark hesitated a moment, wondering if they should continue straight to the market square, when they heard a sharp cry down the alley to their right. Bruce moved just as he did, unthinkingly sprinting towards the sound. They rounded the corner and entered what appeared to be the city graveyard, where a small crowd was already gathered.

With a heavy heart, Clark passed the beggars and gawkers and saw what he expected to find – a young woman, face down between two large headstones, both splattered in blood. A priestess stood over her, murmuring last rites, while a city guard tried to keep the onlookers back. He moved to intercept Clark’s approach with a sharp “Hold it there! Keep your distance!”

“What happened here?” Clark quietly asked. The guard’s posture slumped a bit. He was quiet for a moment before admitting, “Another girl killed. This is Susanna from Candlehearth Hall.”

Clark spared a thought for the woman working at the inn as he asked “How was she killed?”

“Same as the others. Looks like she was stabbed, then cut apart,” the guard sounded pained as he added, “It’s like an animal got to her, but these are the wounds of a blade.”

“Same as the others?”

“She’s the third. It’s always the same – young girl, killed at night, body torn up.”

 _Definitely sounds like what we’re looking for,_ Clark thought. Aloud, he asked “Are these murders being investigated?”

“We’re stretched thin as it is with the war. Nobody has the time to spare for this.” Despite how harsh his words sounded, Clark caught a hint of regret in the guard’s tone.

“Then maybe I could look into it?” Clark offered, as though it had just occurred to him and he hadn’t been planning on saying it since he rounded the corner.

The guard looked a little wary again, but ultimately sighed and stepped aside. “We’d appreciate it, I’m sure.”

Clark pressed his fist to his chest and offered a very short, solemn bow before turning to the body. The priestess had apparently finished her work, murmuring about getting the body moved and crossing the graveyard to the entrance to the underground crypts. Bruce had somehow already moved to the body without Clark noticing and appeared to be wrapping up his own assessment of the situation.

Clark moved to his side and quietly asked “What do you think?”

Bruce pursed his lips. “Her coinpurse is still intact, so whoever did this wasn’t looking for money, and she wasn’t just randomly torn up – her joints have been stripped clean of ligaments.”

Clark blanched. “Why would they…?”

“I have a hunch,” Bruce said, “but not much else. Go see if any of these gawkers saw anything – I’ll look around some more.” Clark waited a moment as Bruce went off into the graveyard proper, blending seamlessly with the shadows as he slipped out of sight, before turning his attention to the remaining spectators.

The priestess didn’t have anything more useful to say – she was preparing the body for burial, so she noted the same things Bruce had – and a strange man in a gaudy orange tunic only said he saw someone running away without getting a good look. The beggar woman who apparently frequented this part of town heard the scream and came running, but said the girl was already dead when she arrived.

Clark tried to smother his frustration as he reported this back to the guard, who looked equally upset. “I could do something more thorough?” Clark offered. “Try to find him?”

The guard shuffled uncomfortably. “If you want to do anything more, you’ll have to report to the Jarl’s steward, Mercy Graves. Can’t have you claiming to be on official city business without the city’s approval.”

 _That’s what I was afraid of_ , Clark thought sourly, but he only offered a quiet “Of course” before parting ways with the guard. He went looking for Bruce at the west end of the graveyard and almost tripped over him – he was squatting close to the ground just out front of the entrance to the city crypts.

“Not much luck on my end,” Clark admitted, bending at the waist to try and see what had Bruce’s attention. “You find anything?”

Bruce touched a gloved hand to the ground and brought it back up, rubbing his thumb and first two fingers together. He rose and showed Clark the dark, damp substance that coated his fingers – blood, and fairly fresh. Clark followed his gaze to the dark splatter at their feet, barely visible in the low light and pervasive fog.

“I think we’ve been left a trail,” Bruce said grimly, lifting his gaze to the matching puddle a few feet away.


	3. Two Stained Journals

Clark let his companion take the lead, following him up the stairs to the second level of the graveyard. Bruce found another splash just to the right of the stairs, leading them up another alley into the Valunstrad district, where the homes of the city’s more affluent residents were located. Unlike the Grey Quarter, these houses were reasonably spaced apart, made of fine quality stone and sturdy, elaborately carved wood. High stone walls topped with wrought iron gave each home a small yard, and stone falcons glared down at anyone passing by in the street.

Three more splatters on artisanal cobblestone urged them straight down the walkway and up another short set of stairs to a small courtyard shared by two homes. In the dim lamplight, even Clark could see that one warmly lit house was maintained and well-cared for, while the other was not only in need of some new stonework, but had one last smear of dried blood on the steps leading to the door. Bruce gently tried to open it, but the door didn’t budge. He met Clark’s eyes with an expression he now knew meant _keep watch_ before dropping to one knee and pulling out a knife and a lockpick. Clark dutifully turned his back to Bruce, sweeping his gaze over the streets below and the windows surrounding them, both of which were blessedly empty. He fought down an inappropriate smile when he heard one snap of metal giving way, then two, then three, followed by a string of quiet cursing. After a few more moments, a soft click signaled Bruce’s success, and he carefully pushed one the doors open, dagger held tight in his right hand.

Clark only followed when Bruce signaled, fighting back a shudder as he stepped into an unnervingly empty house. The walls and floors were bare, and the only furniture in the large main room was a chair and a table, an overturned barrel, and an empty set of shelves. The low-hanging fog pervading the city found a way to seep into the abandoned home, clinging to the floor in eerie wisps. Clark saw a doorway to their right and a set of stairs ahead. He turned to Bruce to see where they should look first, but the other man was staring at the floor to their left. Through the fog, Clark barely saw the splash of blood. He let Bruce lead again, sweeping his gaze to make sure nobody could sneak up on them – if this was the Butcher’s hideout and he just claimed a victim, odds were high that he was here right now.

Bruce stopped at the far left wall. Clark looked over his shoulder to watch as he inspected a bloody chest, murmuring about “marks on the floor” and “recently moved.” He opened it as quietly as he could, reaching in and coming back with 11 pamphlets and a battered journal. Even in the low light, the former were familiar – it was a stack of the “Beware the Butcher” notices that Viola Giordano had been spreading around town. Bruce tucked these away and instead opened the journal, moving his body so he faced the open room. He quickly scanned it before passing it over to Clark, who only looked once he was sure Bruce had them covered.

In thin, spidery handwriting, the owner had written:

_The plans are coming together swimmingly. I've found good sources of bone, flesh, and blood, but thus far a good sampling of sinew and marrow have escaped me. No matter. The city is swollen with contemptuous fools who will be missed by nobody._

_Last night was almost able to corner Susanna as she left Candlehearth. Idiot guard showed up at just the wrong moment and I had to turn about, just out for a stroll, and so forth. There will be other chances, but the time is drawing near._

_I think back to my time in Winterhold. All the wasted minds up in their towers. They only explore the magic they already know. I am discovering new magic here. Something deeper than the cantripped shenanigans of fire and light. This flesh magic is older than us. Perhaps older than the world itself. I am tugging at the corners of the fabric of the universe, and where it bunches and folds is where I shall create my greatest triumph._

_One more attempt at the Candlehearth girl. She's proving to be a bit too cautious, but those strong joints of hers should contain the most exquisite tendons. Worth the effort. Tonight._

Clark shot a concerned look at Bruce. “Cannibal?” he mouthed soundlessly. Bruce only shook his head and took the journal back, keeping it with the pamphlets, before moving straight to the back of the house. They had to sidestep a couple of massive cobwebs stretching from floor to ceiling before they reached a recessed room with two wardrobes and a set of low shelves. Clark, magic at the ready, opened the wardrobe on the left, finding only a nice set of clothes before joining Bruce at the shelves, where more pamphlets were piled. Bruce gently sifted through them, combing his fingers through one stack, then the next. For a moment he froze, then carefully lifted the second stack while reaching underneath. His hand came back with some kind of amulet that he only gave a cursory inspection of before pocketing it.

Since he was closer, Clark moved to the last wardrobe, absently noting that it was nailed to the wall. He pulled the doors open to reveal an empty space – not even any clothes. He frowned, but Bruce pressed up against his side, moving him out of the way and reaching out to the back wall of the wardrobe. He pressed both hands against it and gently applied pressure until the panel groaned and slid out of the way, revealing a small candlelit room.

Clark stepped in and immediately kicked something, making it roll across the floor and bump into something else. He peered down and nearly bit his tongue when he saw a human spine just next to his foot and the bloody skull that he must have hit sitting next to a pile of bones, taking up most of the center of the room. Just beyond them was a makeshift altar with a few more bloody bones and another journal. Bruce quickly picked his way across the room, avoiding the detritus and deftly grabbing the book before returning to Clark’s side and flipping through it. He was much quicker this time, handing it off to Clark and moving past him to guard the door. Feeling like he had a stone in his gut, Clark opened the journal and read the three brief pages.

_17 tendons and assorted ligaments_

_173 fragments of bone for assemblage approx._

_4 bucket-fulls of blood (Nord preferred)_

_6 spoons of marrow (no more than 2 from a thigh)_

_12 yards of flesh (before cutting)_

_star-scrying to the edge of the ice-mind_

_look to the lights where the souls dance_

_revealing the time when a spark will revive_

_when the rotted unites under most skillful hands_

_(translation from Aldmer text, as interpreted by the Ayleids and first transcribed by Altmer. provenance and authority unknown)_

_soon_

He exhaled shakily and pocketed the book, following Bruce back out of the hidden room. They finished a full sweep of the house, but upstairs they found nothing but empty rooms and a broken bed – the killer wasn’t here tonight. Fairly certain they’d found everything they could, the pair left and walked out into the night.

They didn’t return to their room at the inn until nearly one in the morning, completely exhausted, but Bruce insisted on looking things over again before they went to bed, since the late hour afforded them more privacy. Overall they had the two journals, the stack of pamphlets, and the amulet that Bruce began examining in the candlelight. He frowned at it for a moment before asking Clark for more light – he obligingly created a small Magelight and held it near the necklace. The black leather cord was plain and unadorned, but the pendant was a winding silver shape that made two circles. The smaller of the two was where the cord attached, while the larger housed a hunk of jade carved into the shape of a skull.

Bruce glanced at Clark from the corner of his eye. “Do you sense anything?”

Clark pursed his lips and concentrated, reaching out his free hand to hold the pendant and turn it to catch the light. It hummed under his touch with a tune that felt vaguely ominous. He released it and told Bruce “I can’t get anything specific, but it’s definitely magic, and it’s definitely bad.”

Bruce snorted. “Helpful.”

“Listen, my primary schools of magic are Destruction and Restoration – this isn’t my strong suit,” Clark muttered defensively. “Is there someone in town who could tell us more?”

“I heard about a man with a curiosity shop who’s supposedly well-traveled. He might be able to give us something.”

“Well, let’s check on him in the morning,” Clark said through a jaw-cracking yawn. Bruce’s lips quirked into a faint smile but he didn’t comment.

“In the morning, then.”


	4. Tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I reference a well-known glitch in this quest, which I experienced as I played through it for this fic. God bless Bethesda's buggy games.

Of all the difficulties Clark anticipated when arriving at Windhelm, none proved to be as daunting as getting into Calixto's House of Curiosities. The museum wasn’t open at 9 the next morning, well after most shops in the city, so they circled back an hour later to try again only to find the door was still locked. They repeated this process several times before they finally hit a stroke of luck and felt the door give way when they pushed, stepping into an open room with a high ceiling. The walls were lined with shelves that were filled with everything from soul gems and chipped vases to carved flutes and spider eggs. A table off to the right was stacked with several skulls, most of which belonged to animals but there was one from a troll and Clark definitely saw a human skull in the mix.

He flinched when a cheerful voice asked, “How can I help you gentlemen?”

He finally saw the man seated in the midst of this odd collection and was startled to realize they’d already met – he was wearing a familiar orange tunic that was no less gaudy in the full light of day. He had an Imperial complexion, but seemed surprisingly affable considering the hostility he surely faced here. Clark offered him a smile and replied, “Are you Calixto Corrium? I found this amulet on my travels and was hoping you could help me identify it – I hear you’re something of an expert.”

Clark carefully withdrew the jade amulet from his bag and held it out for Calixto to see. He leaned forward in his chair, eyes narrowing as he inspected the stone.

“Let me see…” he muttered, reaching out and tilting it to catch the light. “Ah yes, this is the Wheelstone. It’s an heirloom symbol of the power of Windhelm. Traditionally it’s carried by the court mage.”

Clark frowned. He was _really_ hoping to avoid the palace, but if the culprit turned out to be part of the Jarl’s court, that would make things infinitely more complicated. With some trepidation, he asked “Shouldn’t the court mage have it?”

“Vril Dox? Bah, it’s purely ceremonial, and he has no use for it. Besides, I wouldn’t want to be the one to give it to him – gives me the creeps,” Calixto said dismissively, voice dropping to a secretive whisper before adding, “They say he dabbles in necromancy.”

Clark bit his lip. Damn, this was too big of a lead to ignore. Even if it wasn’t true, they had to at least look into it. He snapped out of his musings when Calixto caught his eye, adding, “I would be…interested in acquiring it. If you’re willing to part with it, that is. For a piece like that I could pay…500 gold?”

Clark waited a moment, as though considering it, but he already knew what his answer would be. “I appreciate the offer sir, but I think I’ll hold on to it for the time being. Thank you very much for your assistance. I must be on my way now.”

“Very well. Until the next!” Calixto cheerfully replied, settling back into his seat and watching as Clark followed Bruce back outside. As soon as the door shut, Bruce grabbed Clark’s wrist and tugged him down into a narrow alley to their right, just under the bridge to the Grey Quarter – there was hardly a foot between them, even with their backs pressed to the walls.

“What do you think?” Clark asked quietly. He watched Bruce’s gaze drop to a spot just over his shoulder, visibly considering the situation.

“I…suspected the killer was involved in necromancy, so this could be a good lead, but it’s also fairly common for people to see a mage in dark robes and automatically assume they’re necromancers with no actual proof,” Bruce explained. “Plus, if we’re trying to avoid the Winter Palace…”

“Yeah,” Clark grumbled. “If Dox really _is_ the Butcher, it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to directly confront him about it, but if we told, say, Mercy Graves, _she_ could probably apprehend him with fewer issues.”

“But that would require talking to Luthor’s closest confidant besides his general,” Bruce countered. “We’re _trying_ to keep a low profile here, and we’ve already done a lot of investigating without city sanctioning.” He paused before quietly adding, “Plus, we’d be doing this on one man’s word, potentially skewed by superstition.”

Clark’s eyebrows flew into his hairline. “You think we should just confront Dox on our own?”

“At the very least, I don’t think he’d be reckless enough to try and kill us in middle of the palace,” Bruce insisted. “...probably.”

Clark sighed, but he knew that Bruce’s plans were generally sound, so he only said, “Let’s give it a try.”

This was how they found themselves approaching the formidable fortress at the northernmost point in the city. The Winter Palace was tall enough that Clark really had to crane his neck to take it all in. The stone was largely unadorned and battered from war and wind, but he had no doubts that it could still withstand a full-scale assault. He and Bruce avoided the guard’s eyes as they quietly approached the towering iron doors, shrinking under the carved glare of the stone eagle face perched above. They pushed the door open just enough to slip through and let it fall shut behind them, leaving them in the main hall of the castle.

Stormcloak blue dominated the space, draped in swaths of fabric along the ceiling and covering parts of the stone floors in faded carpeting. A large table lined with benches took up the most space in the center of the room, leading straight down to the throne at the far end, where it appeared the Jarl was conversing with his steward. Bruce pulled Clark through the nearest doorway, ducking back into the corridor but stopping short to listen to the conversation. Clark cautiously peeked back out into the room, eyeing the man perched on the imposing stone throne.

Luthor was still just as intimidating as he’d been back at Helgen – his face was solemn and stern, and his rich, powerful voice echoed in the empty chamber. Clark thought back to the stories he’d heard about High King Torrig’s death, how Luthor apparently had mastery enough of the Thu’um to Shout the man to death. Listening to him now, in his element, Clark had no doubts that this man was capable of such a thing. The heavy fur mantle draped over his shoulders and down his back barely rustled as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and folding his hands in front of his face thoughtfully.

“Your war is just,” Mercy insisted in a tone as cold as winter. “I would die before I let elves dictate the fates of men. Are we not one in this?”

“That is not the only reason I fight, Mercy,” Luthor murmured, lowering his hands so they remained clasped between his knees. “I fight for the men who’ve died in my arms on foreign soil, for their wives and children whose names I heard whispered in their dying breath. I fight for we few who _did_ come home only to find our country full of strangers wearing familiar faces.”

His voice rose with frustration as he continued, sitting up and slamming a fist into the arm of his throne. “I fight for my people impoverished to pay the debts of an empire too weak to rule them yet brands them _criminals_ for wanting to rule themselves! I fight so that all the fighting I’ve already done hasn’t been for nothing!” He paused for a moment, face flushed with passion, before deflating and looking infinitely weary, slouching back into his seat. “I fight…because I must.”

Mercy appeared indifferent, but she nodded and replied, “Your words are powerful, but the day words are enough will be the day soldiers like you are no longer needed.”

“I would gladly retire from the world were such a day to dawn,” Luthor sighed, heaving himself up from his throne as though the weight of all Tamriel was dragging him down.

“In the meantime, you have a war to plan,” Mercy reminded him, leading the way to a door just to the right of the throne and closing it once her Jarl passed through. Clark released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and slumped back against the wall, watching as Bruce’s brow furrowed and his lips tipped down in a concerned frown.

“It sounds like they’re going to start putting more pressure on Whiterun,” he murmured. “I knew it would be dangerous to remain unaffiliated for so long…”

“We’ll have to send word to the Companions so they’ll be prepared,” Clark agreed. “But for now we should try to conclude our business here quickly. I’m not interested in finding out if Luthor remembers me or not.”

Bruce hummed and took point, leading Clark upstairs and down the narrow stone hallways that were sparsely lit by torchlight. He moved with confidence, as though he’d been here before and knew exactly where the court mage’s quarters would be, but Clark hardly found that kind of thing unusual anymore. Bruce didn’t talk about himself a lot, but Clark had gathered that he was a very well-traveled man who had a talent for getting into places he wasn’t invited. It was useful, and Clark doubted questions would be received well, so he’d learned to accept it at face value.

Eventually Bruce stopped them at an open door, through which an arcane enchanter’s worktable could be seen, carved with glowing blue runes and adorned with candles and a troll skull. Bruce cautiously entered the room, immediately checking all the corners, while Clark took in the cluttered tables along the walls, strewn with dried plants and lit candles.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” a disused voice croaked from somewhere to Clark’s right. He peered into the back corner of the room and saw a hooded figure sitting by shelves filled with potions and bowls of ingredients. Bruce took a step back and shot Clark a look that said _you talk_.

“You wouldn’t happen to have misplaced an amulet recently, would you?” Clark asked, trying to keep his tone from becoming accusatory. Dox frowned thoughtfully, peering at Clark from under his hood. “I can’t say I have. Could you describe this amulet for me?”

Haltingly, Clark replied, “Eight-sided. Jade, ringed with ebony. A worn carving.”

Dox’s eyebrows shot up and disappeared under his hood. “I know it well, or at least I‘ve heard of it. I’d wager that carving once depicted a skull. That is the Necromancer’s Amulet of legend. Where did you find this?”

Clark hesitated, but Bruce spoke from somewhere behind him. “We were investigating the Butcher’s hideout. Between the journals we found and your confirmation now, I think it’s safe to say we have a necromancer on our hands.”

Dox nodded and stroked his chin, keen gaze flickering between Clark and Bruce’s faces. “I’ve been noting a pattern to when the killings happen,” he admitted. “Now that we know they’re tied to some sort of necromantic ritual, I think I know when the next might occur. Let’s see…from a Loredas of Last Seed until a Middas of Hearthfire…” he broke off into some quiet mumbling before concluding, “It will happen soon. Very soon. Keep watch in the Stone Quarter tonight. That’s almost certainly where the killer will strike next.”

And with that he abruptly rose from his seat to go stand at the arcane enchanter, pulling out a couple soul gems and arranging them in a specific pattern. He seemed disinclined to speak any further, so Clark quietly thanked him and followed Bruce back out of the room. They were silent as they passed through the halls, down the stairs, and out the front. They crossed the palace’s walled courtyard in brisk strides and didn’t slow down until they had reached the inn, slipping in through the side door and returning to their room.

Clark dropped onto his bed with a heavy sigh, pulling his helmet off and running a hand through his hair. He looked up at Bruce, who was pacing the room like a caged animal, and casually observed, “You decided to tip our hand pretty quick back there.”

Bruce didn’t even stop to look at Clark as he explained, “I went with my gut. I’ve met plenty of killers in my time, and I can spot one from a mile off. Dox is harmless.”

Clark hummed. “You think we can trust his advice then? About tonight?”

Bruce finally stopped, but he was still staring into the middle distance as he slowly replied, “…I believe so. If he isn’t killing those girls, he would have no reason to deceive us, and he understands the nature of ritual casting better than either of us, I’m sure. We don’t exactly have any other leads to go off of, except…”

Clark waited for him to finish his thought, but when it seemed he might not Clark prodded, “Do you think we have another lead?”

“It’s flimsy at best, and mostly based off a gut feeling again, but – ”

“Seems like the first one paid off,” Clark said with a soft smile. “I’d be willing to bet my coin on this one too.”

It was hard to tell in the dim light of their room, but Clark _swore_ he saw a dusting of pink along Bruce’s cheekbones. He couldn’t say for sure because Bruce turned away again shortly after to rummage through his bag (perhaps a bit more intently than strictly necessary), but Clark decided it didn’t matter – he’d still call it a win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A gold star to anyone who knows the court mage's identity - I certainly wouldn't have known the name without looking it up lol.


	5. The Final Confrontation

Bruce said he couldn’t follow up on his lead until nightfall, so Clark suggested they rest and prepare themselves for whatever might happen tonight. Clark watched for awhile as Bruce sharpened his daggers and checked the enchantments on them, frowning when one seemed depleted. He sat cross-legged on his bed and laid the dagger down before placing a glowing soul gem on the far side of it. He closed his eyes, rested his hands on his knees, and began moving his lips in a silent incantation. The gem began to glow brighter, the light flaring to match the cadence of Bruce’s chant, until he spoke one word aloud and there was a flash so bright Clark had to look away. When his vision cleared, the gem was now dull as stone, but the dagger was humming with energy. Bruce inspected it again with an air of satisfaction before sheathing it at his waist.

Clark didn’t have as much to prep – he just put a few extra magicka potions in his bag and laid down to try and grab a couple more hours of sleep. He swore he’d only closed his eyes for five minutes before Bruce was gently shaking him awake again, nodding meaningfully at the moonlit sky outside their window. Clark rearmed himself and followed Bruce outside, but when Clark moved to cut across the right side of the courtyard to the market square, Bruce veered left back towards the Grey Quarter.

“Where are you going?” Clark asked in a harsh whisper. “Dox said he’d be in the Stone Quarter.”

“I have to check on my lead first,” Bruce said. “I’ll only be a moment – _don’t_ go looking for him without me.”

Clark huffed, but he obligingly leaned against the stone archway at the front of the inn and watched as Bruce stepped out of the warm circle of torchlight and melted into the shadows beyond. Clark crossed his arms and settled in, pulling at his magic to move through his body in an attempt to keep warm. The night was just as cold as the last, flurries of snow drifting along on the gentle breeze that whispered against old stone. The clouds were too thick to see any stars, settling over the city like an ominous fog. Clark toed at the snow piling up on the ground disinterestedly, humming an old Breton tune his mother used to sing to him.

He froze when he heard the slap of leather on stone – feet running at a dead sprint right towards him. His hand flew to his mace and flames licked at his fingers, but before he could react a dark figure roughly grabbed his arm and began dragging him towards the market. He caught a flash of a familiar face twisted into a determined grimace before they passed out of the light again and he relaxed marginally.

He leaned in as close as he could, given their speed, and asked, “What’s wrong? Did you find something?”

“Yeah,” Bruce grunted without elaborating. His grip tightened on Clark’s arm for a moment before releasing him, though he stayed close enough that their arms were brushing. They loped up the stairs into the market square, taking them two at a time, and hustled past the blazing forge of the smithy into the square proper. They caught a glimpse of a woman at one of the stands, her back to them as she packed up her wares, but another figure was approaching her, moving slowly enough that she wouldn’t be able to hear them.

Even as Clark unsheathed his mace, he watched out of the corner of his eye as Bruce’s dagger left his fingers and shot into the dark, easily finding its mark. Someone let loose a strangled cry of pain and there was a clatter of metal on stone, but Clark didn’t slow down, charging past the now screaming woman to tackle the figure to the ground. They struggled for a moment, but Clark found he could easily overpower them and soon had them pinned face-down to the ground, pressing the haft of his mace to the back of their neck and all but sitting on their back.

He waited until Bruce came up behind him to ease back slightly, giving Bruce space to smash the butt of his other dagger into the Butcher’s head and knock them out cold. Clark rose into a crouch and took a length of rope that Bruce held out and quickly trussed them up, dragging them back towards the light of the forge. He felt his eyebrows shoot up as he took in the garish tunic – a familiar shade of orange.

“And here you were trying to pin it on the mage, Calixto,” he murmured, shaking his head. He listened to Bruce’s muttered conversation the woman they’d saved, ensuring she was unharmed before asking her to get a guard. She nodded and took off the way they’d come. Bruce sighed and ambled over to Clark’s side, looking at Calixto Corrium without even a hint of surprise on his face.

“Was this your last-minute lead?” Clark asked. Bruce wordlessly handed him a worn leatherbound journal, which Clark took and opened with some trepidation.

_Soon enough, my sweet Lucilla, you will be with me again. Normally when such words are written it is because the love left behind is soon to depart, but in my case, I hope to soon bring your spirit back into my world, for it was you who loved this world so much, not I._

_I continue to collect your new form from the ragged bits around Windhelm. If they only knew what destiny would soon grace their bodies, with your spirit imbuing them with higher purpose, they would surely thank me for the great gift I give them. I reserve for them a place of beauty alongside your heart._

_The day draws near. Soon I will hold you. And I will show you this and it will be as delivering a long-forgotten letter to a weary traveler._

_Love always,_  
_Calixto_

Clark sighed and closed his eyes as he let the journal fall shut.

“He seemed…off when we visited him,” Bruce quietly explained, still looking at the man on the ground. “He eyed the amulet too intently. His nonchalance felt feigned. I’d spotted a chest up in his rafters during your discussion with him, so I broke into the museum tonight and got it open.”

“Was there anything else in there besides this?” Clark asked quietly, opening his eyes again.

“A staggering amount of embalming tools and scalpels, some linen wraps, another steel dagger,” Bruce enumerated, matching Clark’s muted tone.

“Why would he _do_ that?” Clark asked in disbelief. “How can someone be selfish enough to decide that _one person_ is so important to have in this world that they’d kill dozens of others?”

Bruce was quiet, and Clark thought maybe he’d taken the question as rhetorical, but he was startled by a strong yet gentle grip on the back of his neck, only applying enough pressure to be comforting.

“There will always be people who will look for any excuse to take a life,” Bruce murmured sadly, “even if they think their reasons are noble. Calixto thought he was saving his wife. Luthor thinks he’s saving his country and its people. They wear different masks and give different speeches, but underneath they’re all the same. You can’t hide the stench of a killer.”

They stood in silence for a moment, listening to the wind and the crackling forge and watching the play of light over Calixto’s face. Bruce hadn’t retrieved his hand yet and began stroking his thumb gently along the column of Clark’s neck, almost as though he wasn’t aware of it. Clark tried to not lean into the touch, but spending most of his days in plate armor made him desperate for contact sometimes, even if it was the leather-clad grip of one of his closest friends.

He only got to enjoy it for a moment longer – they heard the woman returning, speaking quietly with a harried-sounding guard. Bruce moved his hand to Clark’s lower back, guiding him away from the light and behind the nearby apothecary. They watched as the pair approached the unconscious form and looked around – probably trying to find the men who’d stopped this crime spree. Bruce waited for a moment longer, watching as the guard hefted Calixto off the ground, before leading Clark into the alley that spit them back out into the graveyard.

“It would sure be nice if we could get paid for this…” Clark mumbled. “Too bad someone decided to go on a killing spree in _Luthor’s_ city.”

That dragged an undignified snort out of Bruce, who gave Clark a halfhearted reprimanding swat on the arm. They ambled past the lonely gravestones, so worn from time that their words were no longer legible, and slipped back into the inn through the side door. Again, as though by unspoken agreement, they were silent until the door to their room shut behind them. Bruce immediately set to cleaning and maintaining his daggers, wiping them with a clean cloth while Clark leaned against one of the dressers.

“I take it we’ll be leaving first thing in the morning?” Clark asked, pulling off his helmet and starting on the straps that kept his chestplate in place.

Bruce paused for a moment, the cloth in his hand halting abruptly, before he slowly resumed his task with great intensity. “Earlier today I heard…disturbing rumors. A boy named Jason Todd is supposedly trying to invoke the Black Sacrament somewhere in this city. It’s probably just a rumor, but the Sacrament isn’t something to be taken lightly. If this boy is really trying to get himself tangled with the Brotherhood…”

Bruce’s voice grew increasingly gruff as he explained, and he cut himself off with a sound approaching a growl. His dagger was clean ages ago, but he still ran the cloth along the blade in sharp strokes. Clark set down the last of his armor with a frown. “Do you mean the Dark Brotherhood? The assassin’s guild? I thought they were completely wiped out during the Great War?”

“If only,” Bruce grumbled. “Skyrim is home to the very last surviving Sanctuary, though there’s little resemblance between this group of stragglers and the Brotherhood of old.”

Bruce had finally stopped wiping down the dagger, setting the blade aside, but he still held the cloth in a tight grip, glaring at it. Clark felt his brow furrow in concern. He wanted to ask questions, but during his four month acquaintance with Bruce, he’d learned that the man didn’t respond well to prying – best case, he ignored you like you hadn’t spoken, worst case you might have a sharp implement somewhere unpleasant. He’d watched Bruce unflinchingly stab Hal’s hand with a fork one night when Hal kept pestering him for stories over dinner. Most of the Companions knew better by now, but Hal was either brave or stupid enough to keep trying.

Clark could only wish for Hal’s courage right now. The Dark Brotherhood had come up once or twice during his time in Skyrim – the Companions were trying to flush out the last of them and see they were brought to justice – and every time the subject arose Bruce shut down. He wasn’t a terribly expressive person to begin with, but Clark was beginning to learn how to read him. He knew how to look for suppressed laughter in the warmth of Bruce’s eyes. He knew how to find stress in the slope of Bruce’s shoulders. He knew how to see the smiles in the softening of Bruce’s lips. He may not be an open book to most people, but Clark knew how to read Bruce. It made it all the more painful to see the man close off when the obviously sore subject came up.

So instead of prodding him with questions that would just make him unhappy and stressed, Clark offered him a soft smile and said “I don’t mind staying a few more days. Any time spent _not_ fighting dragons is practically a vacation in my book.”

He thinks of nothing but the subsequent sound of Bruce’s quiet laughter as he finally lays down and drifts off to sleep.


	6. The Black Sacrament

As it turns out, the Todd household isn’t difficult to find – Catherine had died fairly recently and just about everyone in the street had something to say about it. Some would remark how sad it was that her boy was left all alone like that, but others dropped the location of the home when mentioning Catherine’s financial struggles. It was just outside the Grey Quarter, perched on one of the bridges leading away from the House of Curiosities. It was fairly nondescript, made of the same stone that held the rest of the city together, but even as they approached the door, Clark could tell something wasn’t right. Unsurprisingly, it was locked, so he had to stand watch again while Bruce picked the lock. This one gave way with little struggle, slowly swinging open as Bruce cautiously peered in.

All Clark could see over his shoulder was a staircase that immediately went up from the doorway. He lowered himself into crouch and came up the stairs just behind Bruce. As they ascended, they could hear a young voice chanting, “Sweet mother, sweet mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear.”

There was a pause and the voice continued, sounding much more frustrated, “Grelod you old crone, you’ll _get_ what you deserve! The Dark Brotherhood will see to that…”

The boy took a deep breath – likely to calm himself – and began repeating the chant. Clark couldn’t see much of Bruce’s face from this angle, but he looked a bit paler than usual. They crept up the stairs until they could finally see into the rest of the house. The staircase dumped them into an antechamber, but through an open doorway they could see the main room of the house, could see a bed and the fireplace, but still couldn’t see Jason. He’d finished another round of chanting and weakly moaned, “I’m _so_ tired. Please…how long must I do this? I keep praying Night Mother, why won’t you _answer_ me?”

Clark felt something clench in his chest at the boy’s defeated tone. He was right behind Bruce as they stepped into the main room, spotting Jason down another short hall to their right. He was standing over a half-circle of lit candles that ringed what appeared to be an _entire_ human skeleton and some kind of fresh meat – Clark wasn’t keen on finding out what kind. Bruce straightened out and intentionally stepped on a creaky part of the floor, making the boy whirl around with a surprised scowl. He didn’t seem to notice Clark, who had hung back on purpose, but he took one look at Bruce, decked in his black leather armor and dark cloak, and immediately perked up.

“You’ve come at last! I knew you would!” he cried, face splitting with a tired smile. If Clark didn’t know Bruce so well, he would have missed the minute flinch at the boy’s enthusiasm. Bruce dropped down to one knee, looking him in the eye as he asked, “Are you all right?”

Jason continued as though Bruce hadn’t spoken. “It worked! I knew you’d come! I just knew it! I did the Black Sacrament, over and over, with the body and the…the things. And then you came! An assassin from the Dark Brotherhood!”

Clark had seen Bruce get shot and stabbed and, on one memorable occasion, nearly mauled by a bear. The man could handle any amount of pain with a stoic countenance. The face he wore now, twisted with hurt and grief, was one Clark had never seen before. He watched as Bruce cautiously rested a hand on Jason’s shoulder and steadily answered, “I’m sorry Jason, but that’s not who I am.”

“Of course it is!” Jason immediately shot back. “I prayed, and you came, and now you’ll accept my contract!”

“Jason, the Brotherhood can’t hear the Sacrament. Not anymore. And that’s really for the best – you _don’t_ want to be involved with them,” Bruce assured him, lightly squeezing his shoulder.

Jason frowned, his features clouding over with frustration and confusion. “Yes I do. They’re the only ones who can kill Grelod!”

“And who is that?” Bruce gently asked.

Jason outright scowled. “When my mother died, I was sent to that terrible orphanage in Riften. The headmistress is an evil, cruel woman. She’s terrible to _all_ of us. So I ran away, and came home, and performed the Sacrament so Grelod can finally get what she deserves,” he hissed.

Clark felt his chest clench again even as Bruce’s face softened. “She sounds very cruel indeed,” Bruce agreed, “but there are other things we can do to take care of her. You don’t need the Brotherhood for this.”

Jason’s anger gave way to confusion again. “Who else would kill her for me?” he asked.

Bruce’s shoulders stiffened, but he kept his apprehension off his face as he explained, “Grelod doesn’t have to die for her to receive justice, Jason. I can make sure she’s imprisoned, I can see to it that someone more worthy of the position becomes headmistress, but I will not kill Grelod, and I won’t let you convince someone else to do it. It isn’t going to help the way you’re hoping it will.”

Jason flinched back and shook Bruce’s hand off, looking betrayed. “How do _you_ know that, huh? What makes _you_ so sure?”

“Because I’ve killed men and women in positions of power before,” Bruce said in an icy tone, “and the people who desired it were never satisfied with only one death.”

 _That_ seemed to regain Jason’s attention. He squinted at Bruce with a confused frown. “So...you _have_ killed people. But now you won’t kill Grelod. Why?”

Bruce smiled, but it was small and sad. “Because you deserve a better future than that, Jason,” he said softly. “You deserve a new start that isn’t marked with bloodshed. I know from experience that nothing good will come of that.”

Jason’s face smoothed out a little, clearly thinking about Bruce’s words. Clark couldn’t help holding his breath, fervently praying the boy would reconsider. It was quiet for a few tense moments before Jason quietly murmured, “…You can _promise_ Grelod won’t be at the orphanage anymore?”

Bruce’s entire body slackened in relief. “Yes Jason. I can take you back to Riften and have her immediately removed and put on trial.”

“Wait, why do _I_ have to come?” Jason asked warily. “Can’t I just wait here?”

“We’re going to need witnesses at her trial if we want her convicted,” Bruce explained. “You seem like a very well-articulated young man, so I’m sure you’d be able to give a strong testimony.”

Jason visibly preened a bit at that, but he looked away from Bruce as though considering it. He didn’t keep up the ruse for long before he said, “Alright, I’ll come with you. Since you can’t do it without me and all.”

Bruce offered him an uncharacteristically warm smile as he stood up, resting a hand lightly on Jason’s shoulder. “My friend and I are staying at the Candlehearth Inn right now. We’ll stay there for tonight and head out in the morning, alright?”

It was only when Bruce gestured to him that Jason finally seemed to notice Clark, who gave him a short bow and said “Clark Kent, at your service.”

Jason gave him a funny look before turning back to Bruce and asking, “What’s _your_ name then, huh? Your friend has more manners than you.”

Bruce barked a laugh that brought another smile to Clark’s lips. “Fair enough. My name is Bruce. It’s an honor to make your acquaintance, Jason.”

Jason had angled his head towards the ground so Bruce couldn’t see his face, but Clark could still see as the boy mouthed Bruce’s name with a hint of reverence. With the hand still on Jason’s shoulder, Bruce guided him back out into the street, apparently confident that Clark would follow.

Clark gave the house one last visual sweep, trying to avoid looking at the ritual circle again, when he thought he saw a flicker of movement in one of the windows. He frowned and approached it, peering out through the cloudy glass, but saw nothing aside from the blurry outlines of nearby houses.

“Clark, are you coming?” Bruce shouted up the stairs.

 _Probably wasn’t important,_ Clark thought as he left the room, very nearly convincing himself.


	7. An Unwilling Listener

The walk back to the inn wasn’t as quiet as they’d been previously – Jason was apparently happy to fill the silence with stories about his friends back at the orphanage. Bruce was looking at him and nodding at all the right places, _actually_ listening, knowing him, but Clark could tell he was tense and constantly scanning their surroundings. They moved at a fairly brisk pace, and Bruce didn’t let them slow down until they’d crossed the threshold of the inn. They ambled back to their room, where Bruce sat Jason on his bed and said, “I have to step out for a moment, Jason. Is it alright if I leave you with Clark?”

Jason shot Clark another funny look, but he nodded and settled in a bit. Bruce squeezed his shoulder one last time before straightening out and heading towards the door. As he passed Clark, he leaned in close and whispered, “Lock the door when I leave and only open it if someone knocks and says ‘The moon is full, Ysgramor – come and fight.’ Understand?”

His lips nearly brushed Clark’s ear due to their proximity, but Clark managed to fight down a shudder and nod. Satisfied, Bruce left, closing the door quietly behind him. Clark locked it up and sighed, resting his forehead on the battered wood. “Be careful,” he whispered, hoping Bruce felt it even if he couldn’t hear it.

“You gonna stand there all day or what?” Jason asked. Clark smiled and turned to face him, but frowned when he got the chance to _really_ look at the kid. He had some serious bags under his eyes, and now that the excitement had died down he was looking a little frayed at the edges. How long had he been doing the Sacrament before they got there? Did he ever take a break to sleep? Clark sat on his own bed and began the process of shucking his armor again as he said, “He might be awhile – you can lay down for a bit if you want. We can eat once you wake up.”

He almost laughed at the conflicted play of emotions across Jason’s face. The insinuation that he needed a nap obviously perturbed him, but the promise of rest and food was slowly winning out. He eventually huffed and flopped back onto Bruce’s bed, rolling so his back was to Clark. He listened with a smile as the boy’s breathing slowly evened out and his body relaxed, sinking into the mattress. Once he’d completely doffed his armor and was left in his light tunic and pants, Clark leaned back against the headboard, facing the door. His mace was still draped across his lap and he kept a frost spell at the ready, lightly coating his fingertips in a thin layer of ice.

He sat there for what felt like ages (but likely only amounted to an hour at most) when a knock finally came at the door. He jumped to his feet and slowly approached, keeping his steps silent. He stood just next to the door, pressed against the wall, and held his breath. It was another tense moment before a familiar voice murmured “The moon is full, Ysgramor – come and fight.”

Clark sighed and relaxed his body, propping his mace against the wall and opening the locks with the hand that wasn’t still coated in frost – just to be sure. He opened the door a crack and saw Bruce’s tired visage, his heart clenching as he stepped back and let the door fall open all the way. Bruce gave him a grateful nod and stepped in, closing and locking the door again as he passed through. He slumped back against the wood with a heavy sigh, his entire posture deflating as he closed his eyes and pursed his lips.

Clark let the silence stretch on for a bit longer, trying to give Bruce a moment to compose himself, before he quietly asked, “Are you alright Bruce?”

Cobalt eyes fluttered open to meet Clark’s, and he nearly gasped at the swirl of emotions within them: frustration, acceptance, fear and anxiety, regret, and something that looked almost apologetic. “I’m sorry Clark,” he whispered back, as though he wasn’t capable of speaking any louder. “All this time I thought I’d covered my tracks well, but they knew. They always knew, and I should have known that.”

“Bruce, I don’t understand,” Clark said, concern pinching his brow. “What’s wrong?”

Bruce wiped a tired hand down his face. “It’s…a long story. One I’m not proud of,” he admitted. He let his hand drop and almost hesitantly met Clark’s gaze again. “But if you’re willing I should…no, I _want_ to tell you.”

Clark’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline before he could stop them. It earned him an amused huff, even if it was a bit strained. He flushed and murmured, “Of course Bruce, _of course_ I’ll listen. I just never thought…”

“I know. I haven’t exactly been terribly forthcoming thus far,” Bruce agreed. His gaze flickered over to Jason’s sleeping form, who Clark had nearly forgotten about.

“Should we do this outside so he doesn’t hear?” Clark asked.

Bruce seemed to be considering it, but eventually he shook his head. “I don’t exactly mind if he does. Might do him some good to hear what he managed to avoid today.”

“So this is about the Brotherhood?” Clark guessed, slowly moving to sit at the edge of his bed again. Bruce followed his lead and sat beside him, close enough that their thighs were pressed together.

“Unfortunately,” Bruce grimaced. “Did I ever tell you where I grew up?”

Clark blinked. “Um, I think Diana said something about Solitude?”

“Yes. My parents were born at the very heart of the empire, in Cyrodiil. They were already married by the time they came to Skyrim, and had me a few years later. They were fairly wealthy, successful people who had good connections, so they did well for themselves in Solitude. Unfortunately they…they died. When I was still young.” Here Bruce paused, visibly pulling himself together before he could continue. “Our Housecarl, Alfred, continued taking care of me in the absence of any other relatives, so I lived in Solitude until a few years ago.”

“When High King Torrig died?”

Bruce hummed in affirmation. “A lot of things changed that day for a lot of people. On the surface, it seems like this civil war is a fight between the empire and the Stormcloak natives of Skyrim, but the empire was a splintered faction in the early days of the war. Torrig left no heir, so there was some debate over who should take the throne, and everyone was expected to take a side. It made for a fairly…delicate situation in Solitude, and I had no desire to partake in that mess, so I left.”

“Just like that?”

“Pretty much. I said goodbye to Alfred, asked him to take care of the house and made sure _he_ would be safe and comfortable, and I snuck out in the night. I was frustrated, but I didn’t feel like I could do anything to really change the situation – I felt powerless.” Bruce paused again, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He stared down at his clasped hands, avoiding meeting Clark’s eyes. “I had a plan, but I knew I lacked the skills to carry it to fruition, so I needed a mentor – someone who was unquestionably the best at what they did.”

Clark leaned a little closer and said, “I take it this is where the Brotherhood comes in?”

“Yes. They had a specific skillset and accepted just about anybody who showed promise. It took months for me to track them down – or at least, for them to hear I was looking for them and finally approach me. Their leader at the time was a woman named Talia – she was the one who assessed me and decided I was fit to join. I spent the better part of a year with the Brotherhood, learning how to sneak past the finest security, how to gather information for planning larger jobs…” he sighed. “And the many creative ways you can kill a person.”

“Was that…part of what you were _hoping_ to learn?” Clark asked with some hesitation.

Bruce’s head lowered further. “At first…yes. I was still angry about a lot of things and I thought that taking extreme measures was acceptable in some cases.” His gloves creaked as he tightened his grip, threaded fingers flexing in anticipation. “I felt at home with the Brotherhood, with the other misfits the world had left behind. I grew closer to the others, but especially Talia. She and I eventually became…intimate,” he admitted. “She was a thorough mentor as well as a beautiful and brilliant woman. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone as capable and determined as her – she absolutely entranced me.” He was quiet again before he admitted, “One of my greatest regrets about my time there was our inability to make it work.”

Clark viciously stifled the urge to flinch. Something in his chest cracked at the admission, but he was determined to see this through – it wasn’t about him right now. “I’m so sorry Bruce,” he said, relieved he could say so truthfully.

“Don’t be,” Bruce replied, sitting up and meeting Clark’s gaze for the first time since he’d begun. “The only way we could have been together is if I became someone absolutely detestable – someone too far gone to ever see the light again.” His eyes slowly drifted away again, staring at a spot on the wall.

“I was already beginning to question some of their methods after half a year with the Brotherhood – after I realized I’d killed some people who didn’t deserve to die – but the final nail in the coffin was the arrival of Cicero.” Bruce abruptly made a disgruntled face, as though he unintentionally made a pun and was upset with himself. Clark huffed a halfhearted laugh, but he gently nudged Bruce with his elbow, urging him to continue.

“Cicero was one of the last members of a Brotherhood branch from outside of Skyrim,” Bruce explained. “He came to this, the last Sanctuary in Tamriel, to bring the Night Mother where she belonged.”

“Night Mother?”

“She’s…she _was_ the wife of one of the founding members of the Brotherhood, ages ago. After she died, her corpse was kept preserved in a special coffin and her spirit endured, even though her body had passed. It is she who hears when the Black Sacrament is evoked, and she who tells the Brotherhood of it.”

“But I thought you told Jason they couldn’t hear him when he performed the Sacrament?”

“That’s correct,” Bruce nodded, looking at the boy across the room. “The Night Mother can only be heard by one chosen person – her Listener, as they are called. The Mother hears people’s prayers when they perform the Sacrament, she tells her Listener what she has heard, and the Listener must in turn inform the rest of the Brotherhood. The Listener is the Mother’s representative, essentially.”

“That’s…kinda weird, not gonna lie,” Clark said with a conflicted grimace.

“Oh absolutely,” Bruce agreed with a sardonic grin. “It’s batshit. We _all_ thought so when Cicero showed up with this giant iron coffin. Well, everyone but Talia. She was a staunch believer in the Night Mother and all the myth that surrounded her, even though there hadn’t been a Listener for over a hundred years.”

“So how did the Night Mother’s arrival finally drive you away?” Clark asked.

Bruce’s smile slid off. “I was planning to use the commotion of Cicero’s arrival to slip away – I already wanted out, and since Talia was my only major entanglement, I thought I could get off relatively unscathed. As it so happened, she wanted to ask one last favor of me. She thought Cicero was plotting something – she heard him talking to someone in his room a lot. She wanted me to find out who and what he was up to. I decided to hide myself in the room and wait until I heard something incriminating, but there wasn’t a whole lot of cover in there…”

Bruce trailed off, making a weird face. “There must’ve been _something_ , right?” Clark asked.

“Well…the Night Mother’s coffin was being kept in there as well…”

Clark blanched. “Bruce, _please_ tell me you didn’t climb into the coffin with a weird dead lady.”

Bruce didn’t say a word, but he side-eyed him guiltily, which was as much admission as Clark knew he was getting. “ _Gods_ , Bruce,” he sighed.

“To be fair, I’d been in much worse places up until this point, so it didn’t even seem that bad,” Bruce said defensively.

“I don’t think that’s helping any, but by all means, continue,” Clark said with a small grin. Bruce grumbled, but continued on.

“Short version is Cicero was talking to the coffin, to the Night Mother, so there wasn’t a conspiracy, but while I was in there I heard another voice telling me ‘I will speak to _you_ , for you are the one.’ Told me to tell Cicero ‘Darkness rises when silence dies.’ Apparently that’s the traditional inaugural phrase for most Listeners.”

Clark’s face went slack with surprise. “Then… _you_ were the…?”

Bruce grimaced. “The Mother had chosen another Listener, and I was the lucky bastard.”

Clark slumped back, planting his hands behind himself on the bed. “What did you do?”

“Well, the coffin decided to fall open after that, and Cicero was going to kill me for ‘desecrating’ her or something, so I repeated the phrase and instead got to deal with a grown man’s ecstatic tears,” Bruce grumbled. “And of course Talia was absolutely _thrilled_ to hear I’d been given the honor – she was already making plans for us to lead the Brotherhood together.”

“You were trying to leave, and somehow managed to get caught up in another big mess,” Clark sighed in understanding. Bruce nodded.

“If I thought I needed to go before, I was _absolutely certain_ of it then. Before I was just another assassin – a skilled one yes, but easily replaced. Suddenly I’d become a lot more valuable to the organization and the woman who wielded it.”

“But you _did_ get away eventually.”

“Not really,” Bruce said with a frown. “That’s why I left earlier – someone was tailing us. Turned out they’d heard rumors about Jason’s Sacrament and sent someone to investigate, and _they_ were kind enough to inform me that I’d never really escaped. I’d gotten away, but Talia found me again and just decided to keep her distance. The Dark Brotherhood knew where I was this whole time.” Bruce’s eyebrows creased with frustration and he hunched over again. “This _whole time_ , I’ve been putting all of the Companions in danger by associating with them. I’ve threatened the life of anyone I’ve ever come into contact with.” He looked back up and Clark sharply inhaled when he saw the abject grief painted across Bruce’s features. “ _Gods_ Clark, I’ve been putting _your_ life in danger. I’ve been arrogant enough to think I could protect you, but it’s _me_ you need protection from.”

“Absolutely not,” Clark said firmly, face set in a stern frown. “Don’t feed me that shit, Bruce, because it sounds an _awful_ lot like you’re going to try and leave. If what they said is true, then that means they haven’t bothered you for _over a year_. The Companions are probably the only group that could challenge the Brotherhood, so you’re safe with us!”

“Clark, you don’t tell your target they’re being watched unless it’s part of a bigger plan – they’re going to make a move soon,” Bruce insisted.

“Yeah, maybe they want you to leave the protection of the Companions so you’re easier to snatch up!” Clark growled, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation. “I know you’re a talented man, Bruce, but it’s ‘safety in numbers’ not ‘safety in running off alone!’”

“ _I know that_ ,” Bruce hissed, “but I’ve been responsible for the deaths of too many good people already, Clark. I’d never forgive myself if – ” he abruptly cut himself off, snapping his jaw shut and grinding his teeth. His gaze dropped to his feet as he tried to take deep, calming breaths, but he’d already tipped his hand. Clark only hesitated for a moment before resting his hand on the back of Bruce’s neck, mirroring his hold from the other night. Bruce initially tensed under his touch, but by measures he relaxed and leaned into it slightly.

“Bruce, I know you’re worried about all of us,” Clark whispered, stroking his thumb along Bruce’s hairline, “but we’re worried about you too. We want to keep you safe just as much as you want to do the same for us. That’s…that’s how friendships work, you know? We all watch each other’s backs, and there _are_ some risks inherent in that, but we’re willing to accept that because we love each other, right?”

Clark didn’t exactly mean to blurt out that last bit, but he hoped Bruce wouldn’t notice. Of course, he had no such luck, as Bruce tilted his head back and cracked open one eye to give Clark a smirk. “Are you sure you’re speaking for everyone in the Companions? Or perhaps for someone in particular?”

Clark was helpless to stop the flush that warmed his entire face. His eyes dropped to his lap and he grumbled, “Listen smartass, that’s not important, what _is_ important is you _not_ running off into the wilderness because you think it’s going to keep the rest of us safer.”

A gloved hand came up to rest on his thigh and gave it an encouraging squeeze. “I beg to differ,” Bruce hummed. “I think it is of _great_ importance, Clark.”

Clark bit his lip and gathered the courage to look Bruce in the eye again. The face which moments ago was so pained was now infinitely tender – mildly amused, but softened by fondness. It gave Clark the last push he needed to lean in close and press their lips together, tightening his grip on Bruce’s neck.

Bruce sighed against his mouth, reaching up with his free hand to cradle Clark’s face. Despite the weather, Bruce’s lips were warm and soft as they glided over his own. They came together a few times, pressing and pulling away in turn, before Bruce’s lips parted and coaxed Clark’s open. Clark’s breathy moan was swallowed up as Bruce pressed in close, his trembling hand sliding back into Clark’s hair to gently tug at mussed locks. They only pulled apart when air became a necessity, but even then they pressed their foreheads together, mouths close enough to feel the puffs of air as they struggled to draw breath into their lungs again.

They both froze when a quiet rustling disturbed the relative silence. Out of the corner of his eye, Clark saw Jason roll over in his sleep, splaying out on his stomach and shoving his face deeper into the pillow. Clark’s jaw dropped in absolute mortification, but he heard Bruce snort before leaning closer to stifle his laughter in Clark’s neck.

“ _This isn’t funny!_ ” Clark hissed, halfheartedly swatting Bruce’s shaking shoulder. “We could scar this kid for life!”

“Clark, we found him alone in his home with a dead body,” Bruce mumbled against his skin. “I don’t think anything we do is going to faze him.”

Clark grumbled a bit more for show, but he let himself smile when Bruce pressed a tender kiss to his collarbone. He pulled Bruce up so their foreheads touched again, just reveling in the closeness before he slowly asked, “So what’s the plan then? Are we going straight to Riften tomorrow morning?”

“ _I’m_ going to Riften with Jason,” Bruce clarified. “ _You_ are going to head back to Whiterun to report this whole mess to Diana and the others.”

Clark frowned. “I thought we went over this already.”

Bruce smiled, nuzzling their noses together. “Not because of that, Clark, I promise. Haven’t you been able to hear it? They’ve been at it nearly all day.”

Clark could only offer him a blank stare. Bruce pulled back and tapped Clark’s ear, then his chest. “ _Listen._ ”

So Clark did, tilting his head like a dog and staring over Bruce’s shoulder. At first he heard nothing but the inn’s bard and the wind outside, but Bruce tapped his chest again more insistently. With a frown, Clark tugged at the well of energy behind his ribs, letting it wash over him without taking form. Finally, he heard it – distant, faint, but the word undoubtedly familiar.

_Dovah_

_Dovahkiin_

_Dovah_

_Dovahkiin_

“Who the hell…” Clark muttered. Bruce’s lips tugged into a small smile. “That’d be the Greybeards, Clark. Masters of the Voice? The people who know what it means to be the Dragonborn? They’ve been calling you for awhile now.”

“So…what am I supposed to do?”

“They live in High Hrothgar – the monastery atop the Throat of the World. They’re summoning you. Probably think you’re ready to assume your responsibilities as the savior of Tamriel,” Bruce teased.

“Do I have to?” Clark groaned, slumping forward onto Bruce, who only deigned to chuckle at his distress.

“The Greybeards aren’t people you keep waiting, Clark. Besides, you have questions, don’t you? They’ll be willing and able to answer them, I’m sure.”

“….then when will I get to see you again?” Clark sulked, sitting up again with a slight pout.

Bruce smiled, soft and fond, as he replied, “We’ll see each other in Whiterun when our business is concluded. You’ll be wiser, I’ll save a gaggle of children, and we’ll be able to move on to bigger and better things, as usual. Stop by to see Diana first though – she’ll be pissed if you talk to the geezers without letting her know.”

Clark chuckled. “Good plan.” He looked back over at Jason, who by now was completely splayed out and hanging off the bed in some places, and back at Bruce, who had a brow quirked.

“I’m afraid we only have one bed available,” Clark observed with a put-upon sigh. “I haven’t a clue how we can arrange accommodations for everyone now.”

Bruce smirked and stood, pulling at the buckles of his armor. “That _does_ sound troublesome. Perhaps I could offer a few suggestions.”

Clark knew this was going to be goodbye for a long while, but a night in Bruce’s arms seemed a fair parting gift to hold him over.


	8. An Invitation

It was nearly a month later when Clark dropped heavily into a booth at the Bannered Mare, lips twisted into a grimace.

“I take it your errands for the Greybeards went well?” Bruce asked wryly, seated across from him with a half-finished tankard. Clark huffed, torn between amusement and genuine frustration.

“Nothing can ever be easy with the old bastards,” Clark said only half-jokingly. “It seemed straightforward enough. ‘Go into this dusty old crypt with a name that has too many consonants and bring back the horn from one of our mightiest members.’ Well, I get through bandits, necromancers, dragur, and the _biggest_ damn spider I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet, and instead of the horn, I got this for my trouble.”

Clark pulled a crumpled note out of his bag and tried to flatten some of the wrinkles out of it before sliding it over to Bruce, who picked it up with great interest. Clark knew the words by heart now – he’d spent the entire trip back to Whiterun reading and rereading that note, hoping to find more clues.

_Dragonborn --_

_I need to speak to you. Urgently._

_Rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood and I’ll meet you._

_\-- A friend_

Bruce frowned. “This _has_ to be a trap.”

“Probably,” Clark admitted with a sigh, “but I don’t really have a choice here. I need the horn back if I want any more help from the Greybeards, so I’ll just have to meet this person on their terms.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked over the note again. His brow pinched in thought and he quietly observed, “This says nothing about having to be alone. If I come with you, it should even out the odds a bit, in the event they try to jump you.”

“Are you sure? I know you only got back from Riften a few days ago…”

Bruce arched an elegant eyebrow. “Who was the one lecturing me about not doing things alone?”

Clark laughed, savoring the bit of warmth in his chest. “Okay, I’ll give you that one,” he said with a grin. “Then how about you go tell Diana where we’re going and I’ll get the horses ready? Riverwood is only a few miles south of there, so if something goes spectacularly wrong, the others can come bail us out.”

Bruce drained the last of his ale in one go and followed Clark out of the tavern. Their business was taken care of in short order, and the trip to Riverwood was uneventful – they arrived shortly after the sun began to descend from its zenith. The town itself was fairly small, perched on the banks of the White River and relatively rural. A few chickens darted past them on the road, fleeing from two enthusiastic small children. Their destination, the Sleeping Giant Inn, was the very first building they encountered – a modest wood structure with a thatched roof. They left their horses out front and climbed the short staircase to the door. Clark took the lead this time, carefully pushing the door open and peering into the inn.

The main room was large and open, with high ceilings and a massive open fire at its center. The barkeep was at the far left end of the room, filling tankards for a few customers even at this early hour. Bruce gave Clark a nudge and tilted his head at something across the fire – a tall, statuesque woman with wild red hair and sharp eyes. The innkeep, Clark figured. He straightened himself out and crossed the room, confident with Bruce’s presence at his back, and said, “Excuse me, I’d like to rent the attic room.”

Her welcoming expression didn’t change, but Clark saw a flash of recognition in her eyes. “I’m afraid we don’t have an attic room sir, but may I guide you to another suitable place for the night?”

Clark played along, nodding and following her to the room just to the right of the bar. She gave Bruce a sharp look as he passed her, but he gave no indication that he’d noticed. She left them to settle in with a muted promise to come check on them shortly, so Clark sat in a chair just next to the room’s wardrobe while Bruce leaned against the opposite wall. True to her word, the innkeep didn’t keep them waiting long – she returned and shut the door behind her, giving Bruce one last assessing look before turning her attention to Clark.

“So you’re the Dragonborn I’ve been hearing so much about,” she murmured. “I believe you’re looking for this.” From the folds of her apron, she produced a dark, curved horn with a mouthpiece carved into the narrow end. Clark had no idea what Jurgen Windcaller’s instrument looked like, but he could _feel_ something thrumming through it when he took it from her, so he could only hope she wasn’t duping him. He put it away with a grateful nod before saying, “I take it you wanted my attention for a reason?”

“Correct. We need to talk. Come with me – your friend stays here,” she said, shooting Bruce a sharp glare.

Clark’s brow furrowed. “He’s my companion and knows just as much about this Dragonborn business as I do. He comes with us, or I leave. Your choice.”

The innkeep looked disgruntled, but she sighed and muttered, “Very well then,” as she approached the wardrobe. She opened it and slid the back away, leading Clark and Bruce down a narrow hidden staircase into a large square room. There was an alchemy lab in the corner and weapons hanging from the walls, but the centerpiece was a large table with a map spread out across the surface.

The innkeep introduced herself as she walked to the opposite side of the table, “My name is Shayera Hol. I hear the Greybeards are convinced you’re the Dragonborn. I hope they’re right.”

Clark approached the table with a frown. “If you’re not even sure I’m the Dragonborn, what do you want with me?”

“I am not your enemy,” Shayera assured him. “I’m actually trying to help you – I just need you to hear me out.”

“Well, I’m listening.”

She leaned forward and rested her hands flat on the table, pinning Clark with an intense stare. “I’m part of a group that’s been looking for you, or at least someone _like_ you, for a very long time. If you really are Dragonborn, that is. Before I can tell you anything else, I need to make sure I can trust you.”

Bruce spoke up now, his face stony as he asked, “And why is your group looking for the Dragonborn?”

Shayera didn’t back down, pinning him with the same look she gave Clark. “We remember what most don’t – that the Dragonborn is the ultimate dragonslayer.” She looked at Clark again. “You’re the only one that can kill a dragon permanently by devouring its soul.” Her eyes narrowed. “Can you do it? Can you devour a dragon’s soul?”

Clark was so thrown by the imagery that he could only stutter out, “Well I definitely… _absorb_ something when I kill them. I wouldn’t call it _devouring_ , per se…”

“Well, you’ll show me soon enough,” Shayera said dismissively.

“Alright, what else aren’t you telling me?” Clark asked, pursing his lips.

For the first time since she’d brought them down here, Shayera looked hesitant. “Dragons aren’t just coming back, they’re coming back _to life_. They weren’t gone somewhere all these years, they were _dead_ – killed off centuries ago by my predecessors. Now something’s happening to bring them back to life, and I need you to help me stop it.”

“Woah, okay, wait, what makes you think they’re coming back to life?” Clark asked, absolutely bewildered.

“I’ve been visiting their ancient burial mounds and finding them empty. There’s a pattern emerging, and I know where the next one is going to appear.” Her eyes met Clark’s steadily. “We’re going to go there, and you’re going to kill that dragon. If we succeed, I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

“What kind of pattern is this?” Bruce asked. His expression hadn’t changed, but Clark could tell he was intrigued.

“It seems to be spreading from the southeast, starting in the Jeralls near Riften. The one near Kynesgrove is next if the pattern holds,” she explained.

“So I take it that’s out destination?” Clark guessed.

“Yes. If we can get there before the revival, we might be able to learn something about how to stop it.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Clark agreed. “Should we leave now?”

“I need to change into my traveling gear. Wait for me out front,” Shayera instructed them. Clark caught Bruce’s eye and led the way back out of the inn. They took their time unhitching the horses and getting them ready, quietly discussing the situation.

“Do you think she’s being honest?” Clark asked.

“If she wanted us dead, she would’ve ambushed us in the basement. Even if what she’s saying sounds crazy, she definitely believes it,” Bruce assured him.

“Where _is_ Kynesgrove anyways?”

“Just south of Windhelm, to the northeast of here.”

“…that is _not_ a short ride.”

Bruce smiled at Clark’s tone, which bordered on petulant. “We’re traveling light – we should be able to make it by nightfall.”

Clark only groaned, eliciting a chuckle from Bruce. Another rider joined them soon after, almost unrecognizable but for the bright red hair cascading down her back. Shayera’s face was almost completely hidden by a large helmet fashioned to look like a hawk’s head, and her steel armor was engraved with similar images. A heavy mace was hanging at her hip, and a sharp smile adorned her lips.

“Let’s be on our way, gentlemen.”


	9. Alduin Revealed

Bruce’s estimation wasn’t far off. By the time they reached Kynesgrove, the sun had just dipped behind the peaks and a snowstorm was beginning to roll in. White flurries whistled past them as they climbed a steep hillside on foot. Shayera had taken the lead, her fiery hair whipping like a banner in the gloom. She turned around and spoke over the wind, “The burial site is close! Be ready for anything!”

Clark nodded and readjusted his grip on his mace. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Bruce unshouldered his bow and grabbed a handful of arrows. They trudged onwards in silence for a few more minutes before they heard it – the piercing roar high above their heads.

“Shit! Were we too late?” Shayera cried, bursting into a sprint. Clark followed close behind, and it wasn’t long before they crested the hill and saw what was happening.

He wasn’t sure what was weirder – the massive pillar of energy shooting up out of the ground, or the enormous black dragon that seemed to be observing it, hovering midair for a moment before circling the pillar. Shayera tugged Clark behind a large boulder and they watched as the dragon hovered again, staring into the storm of energy with intent. The pillar cut away some of the gloom, and Clark realized with a start that he’d _seen_ this dragon before. It felt like years ago now, riding into Helgen in the back of a wagon with Lex Luthor and a horse thief. Being saved from the chopping block by the timely arrival of living fury and hellfire. Standing not two feet away from a black maw, open and pouring flame into the tower he had taken shelter in. There was nothing left of Helgen now – only charred remains and flattened rubble.

 _That_ was the monster he was faced with again. Clark fought down a shudder as it snaked its head closer to the pillar, then _spoke_. Its voice was like thunder, commanding and intense, and Clark could feel it pulling at the well of energy in his chest, burning him from the inside out. As it spoke, the ground began to shake.

“ _Sahloknir! Ziil gro dovah ulse!_

_Slen Tiid Vo!”_

The moment it fell silent again, the burial mound erupted in a shower of stone and dirt. Clark watched, awed and horrified, as a dragon skeleton climbed out of the hole, screeching and scrambling across the ground. Energy began to coalesce around it, and it too spoke.

“ _Alduin, thuri! Boaan tiid vokriiha suleyksejun kruziik?”_

The black dragon, still hovering nearby, responded.

“ _Geh, Sahloknir, kaali mir.”_

Then it slowly turned its massive head to look, unmistakably, straight at Clark. His breath caught in his throat and he felt incredibly small as he met the piercing crimson gaze.

 _“Ful, losei Dovahkiin? Zu’u koraav nid nol dov do hi._ ”

The dragon paused, then continued in a condescending sneer.

“You do not even know our tongue, do you? Such arrogance, to dare take for yourself the name of Dovah.”

Clark only took another breath when the dragon looked away again, addressing its newly-revived brother.

“ _Sahloknir, krii daar joorre.”_

Clark noticed with a start that the new dragon had slowly-forming flesh, the energy coalescing in almost a reversal of what happened when he killed one. As the last of its scales regrew, the dragon roared and charged at their hiding place. With a heartfelt curse, Clark dove out of the way, narrowly avoiding being barreled over. He only had a moment to breathe, a moment to notice the black dragon flying off to the northeast, before he was ducking under a swinging tail.

“I am Sahloknir! Hear my Voice and despair!” the new dragon cried, lurching up and taking off with a powerful stroke of its wings. Its muddy scales blended well in the night sky, causing Clark to lose sight of it for a moment as it circled the burial mound.

He barely heard Bruce’s warning over the howling wind, but dove aside just in time to miss a spray of frost tracing its way along the ground. He spun on his heel to try and find the source, but Sahloknir had vanished into the snowstorm again. The snowflakes flashing past his eyes quivered as the dragon spoke again, voice coming from seemingly all around.

“My lord Alduin requires your death. I am glad to oblige him.”

The statement was punctuated by one last leathery flap immediately followed by a heavy thud. It was finally on the ground, and Clark may still have missed it but for Shayera’s helmet flashing in the night, streaking through the snow as her mace unerringly found its mark. Clark was at her side in a flash, launching a fireball into Sahloknir’s eyes and bringing his mace down on the scaled snout. The dragon roared in outrage and flinched back out of their range.

“I see that mortals have become arrogant while I slept,” it hissed, eyes narrowing in contempt. It grunted as two black shafts bloomed from its side, then spit a ball of ice in the direction they’d come from. Clark’s heart skipped a beat as he heard Bruce curse, but the dark figure was already moving out from behind the cover he’d found, another arrow quickly nocked and loosed straight into the dragon’s neck. Sahloknir’s head shot out and wide jaws snapped at Bruce, but he had already fallen back out of range again, leaving the dragon’s neck wide open – Clark lunged in and swung his mace up into the soft underside of Sahloknir’s neck with an angry cry.

The dragon made an odd choking noise and fell back again. Its green eyes were seething, but its lips were pulled back from its teeth in what Clark realized with horror was a feral grin.

“It’s to be a real fight, then. Good!” it roared, pushing back up off the ground and taking to the skies. Clark cursed and sent another fireball after it, but the dragon banked hard and narrowly dodged it. He heard two thin whistles over the wind and barely saw two more arrows cut through the air, burying themselves in one of Sahloknir’s wings. The dragon howled and took a sharp nosedive, crashing back to the ground with a sharp cry. Shayera charged back into the fray, raining blows along the dragon’s jaw and face. One well-aimed swing caved in an eye socket, pulling another pained roar from the beast. It stumbled back, remaining eye falling to Clark’s face in outrage.

“Your Voice is no match for mine!” it cried, peeling its lips back and spitting another fierce blast of ice at Clark. He nimbly sidestepped the worst of it, shrugging off the light coating of frost clinging to his armor as he pulled at the well of energy. He felt the familiar climb up his throat, but the taste trapped behind his teeth was sharper this time. He planted his feet, then as he lunged forward, he shouted “.”

He felt the burst of wind behind him as he shot forward, closing the distance between himself and Sahloknir in a flash. His mace came up behind him and down onto the injured eye with brutal force, nearly caving in part of the dragon’s skull. A furious green eye rolled wildly in the remaining socket, looking at Clark but so clouded with rage and panic that Clark wondered if it could really see. He pursed his lips and snuffed his magic, taking his mace in both hands and swinging it into Sahloknir’s jaw. Without hesitating, he ran up onto a nearby boulder and launched himself into the air, bringing the mace down one last time in the same place and gritting his teeth as scale and bone gave way with a sickening crunch. Sahloknir’s body gave one last desperate lurch, then collapsed at Clark’s feet. All was silent but the storm, still pelting Clark’s face with stinging bits of ice.

“Wait, something’s happening. Gods above!”

Clark could barely hear Shayera’s cries as that intangible wind filled his ears again. Sahloknir’s body began to crackle and flake away, and the familiar energy burned through Clark. He took a long, shuddering breath as the light faded, leaving him standing over a skeleton once more.

“So you really are…” Shayera murmured. “It’s true. You _are_ Dragonborn.”

Clark finally looked at her, eyes wide as she pulled her helmet off. Her lips twisted into a chagrined smile. “I owe you some answers, don’t I? Go ahead. Whatever you want to know – nothing held back.”

Clark sheathed his mace and crossed his arms over his chest. “Alright, who are you and what do you really want with me?”

Shayera straightened up and held her chin high as she replied, “I am one of the last members of the Blades. A very long time ago, the Blades were dragonslayers, and we served the Dragonborn, the greatest dragonslayer. We were known across Tamriel as the protectors of the Septim Emperors. For the last 200 years, since the last Dragonborn emperor, the Blades have been searching for a purpose.” Her gaze sharpened as her eyes darted to the ancient bones. “Now that dragons are coming back, our purpose is clear again. We need to stop them.”

“Okay, that…sounds fair. Then do you have any idea what just happened back there?” Clark asked, jerking his head back towards the burial mound.

“Absolutely not,” Shayera admitted with a frown. “I was just as surprised as you to find that big black dragon here.”

Clark hesitated before hinting, “Well, maybe not _as_ surprised. I’ve…seen that dragon before. During the attack on Helgen.”

“Really? That _can’t_ be a coincidence,” Shayera frowned. “Damn it, we need more information.”

“And how do you propose we do that?” Bruce asked, coming to stand at Clark’s side and almost imperceptibly leaning into him.

“I have a plan, but I need to check on a contact first,” Shayera said. “Meet me back at Riverwood in a month’s time and I’ll be ready.” She turned to leave as she added, “Keep an eye on the sky. This is only going to get worse.”

Clark gave her a sharp nod and watched as she replaced her helmet and began the descent back to where they’d left the horses. It wasn’t until she was completely out of sight that Bruce wrapped an arm around Clark’s waist, who gratefully leaned against him.

“Just when I thought this couldn’t get any more difficult,” Clark grumbled, turning his head to rest his temple against Bruce’s. “Not just dragons, but _undead_ dragons. With some kind of giant ringleader who can bring them back if _anyone_ other than me kills them.”

“Sahloknir…he called that one Alduin, right? Perhaps we can do some research and see if that name pops up anywhere,” Bruce suggested.

“What kind of places are going to have reliable information on ancient dragons?”

Bruce smirked. “You have one of Tamriel’s most talented infiltrators at your service Clark. If there’s one thing I know how to find, it’s information. I know a few repositories that would probably have useful collections on the matter.”

“Okay, that’s fair, but what can _I_ do?”

“ _You_ are going to take that dusty horn back to the Greybeards and get some more answers from them,” Bruce said, hand sliding up from Clark’s waist to squeeze his shoulder. “If anyone is going to know more about the Dragonborn’s role in all this, it’s going to be them, and at the rate we’re going, we’ll need all the help we can get.”


	10. Epilogue

Clark took an unsteady breath as he heaved open the doors of High Hrothgar, stepping back out into the unforgiving snow. He took his time going down the first set of stairs, trying to ignore the clenching feeling in his gut that only loosened when he reached the bottom and saw Bruce, placid as ever, sitting on the chest the Greybeards used to receive supplies. He looked up when Clark approached, holding his arms open. Clark happily accepted the invitation and stepped into Bruce’s embrace, burying his face in Bruce’s hair.

“I hope you weren’t too cold out here,” Clark mumbled into raven locks.

“I survived. Did your meeting with the Greybeards go well?”

“It was just…a lot,” Clark explained. “They did this big official ceremony to recognize me as Dragonborn, but it involved them all Shouting at me until I thought my teeth were going to rattle out of my head. They dubbed me ‘Ysmir, Dragon of the North’ and offered to teach me more Words of Power.”

“That all sounds…mostly good. Maybe not the Shouting, but now you’ve got the Greybeards backing you. That’ll give you a lot of clout,” Bruce said.

“Yeah, I know, it’s just…” Clark frowned as he tried to put it into words. “I knew, intellectually, that I was Dragonborn, that it was a big deal that I was Dragonborn, but it never really sunk in until the last few days. The whole thing with Alduin and Shayera, now the Greybeards…it’s just…”

“A lot,” Bruce agreed gently, tightening his grip around Clark’s midsection before carefully pushing him back a bit. Clark reluctantly let himself be arranged, looking down at Bruce’s face.

“Clark…” Bruce sighed, taking Clark’s hands and squeezing them as he continued, “Don’t forget that speech you gave me in Windhelm, because I want you to remember it goes both ways. I know this seems overwhelming, and it probably will for some time, but make sure you don’t forget that you aren’t doing this alone. You might be the only Dragonborn in Tamriel, but that doesn’t mean you’re facing down Alduin by yourself. The Companions are always going to stand by you whenever you need them.”

He paused, his gaze dropping to their joined hands before jumping back up to meet Clark’s eyes with determination. “ _I_ will always stand by you, Clark. I don’t care what far-flung city or desolate dungeon your quest takes you to, I will _always_ be at your side, and I will do everything in my power to help you and keep you safe.”

Clark tried to blink back the stinging sensation pricking at the corners of his eyes, but there was no stopping the wobbly smile that stretched across his lips. He pulled Bruce’s hands up to press a kiss to his knuckles, reveling in the dusting of pink that splashed across his cheekbones.

“You know Bruce, if there’s anyone who could make me feel like I could _actually_ pull this off, it would be you,” Clark said, laughing quietly.

Bruce’s smile was a bit more subdued as he stood up, squeezing the hands in his grip and bumping his forehead to Clark’s.

“You _can_ do this,” he repeated, eyes soft. “I wouldn’t throw my lot in with anyone else.”

He pressed a brief kiss to the corner of Clark’s mouth, and even though the wind hadn’t stopped and Clark felt a fat chunk of snow slide down into his armor, he didn’t think he’d ever felt warmer. Skyrim was still a cold, dangerous place, and he knew this whole saving the world thing was going to be the most difficult task he’d ever taken on, but with Bruce at his side and the Companions at his back, he thought perhaps it wouldn’t be as terrible as he was making it out to be. Alduin and the civil war were only the biggest of many problems plaguing the country, but for the first time since Helgen, Clark was confident he could do something about it.

He was _Dovahkiin_ , and his Voice was going to change history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for now! I took notes on a bunch of other quests, so perhaps some bonus chapters will crop up, but this is the story in its entirety. Feel free to let me know what you think, either in the comments or over at my [Tumblr](http://dippkip.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading, and look forward to a lot more great fic from the Bang!


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